


the arc of the universe

by loyaulte_me_lie



Category: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston
Genre: Alternate History, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crack Treated Seriously, Established Relationship, Gen, M/M, Multi, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:54:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24423109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loyaulte_me_lie/pseuds/loyaulte_me_lie
Summary: The Super Six fix history. No, literally.
Relationships: Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, June Claremont-Diaz/Nora Holleran/Percy "Pez" Okonjo
Comments: 25
Kudos: 100





	the arc of the universe

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from a messed-around Martin Luther King quote - "the moral arc of the universe is long, but it bends towards justice."
> 
> I basically got invited onto the RWRB server and its chaotic energy propelled me back into writing RWRB fic. This fandom is amazing. I adore you all. Thank you to my brother for coming up with the original idea, and to Lily for trying to help me with the smut (I really appreciate it even though I chickened out!).
> 
> T/W: past family death, mentions of slavery (at no point is any character actually enslaved), mentions of homophobic historical context.

**England**

Waking is a slow and creeping thing. Henry is curled on his side in his usual sleeping position and there is a crusty taste in his mouth. Even with his eyes shut, his head pounds like he’s rammed it repeatedly into a brick wall – not that he would be stupid enough to actually _do_ something like that, but it feels apt. How much did he drink last night?

Keeping his head as still as possible, he manoeuvres his leg towards the other side of the bed in order to get an indignant squawk out of Alex but the sheets are pristinely cold, not as if Alex has got up to make coffee, but as if Alex never came to bed at all last night. Worrying. It’s a month until Alex’s exams start, he shouldn’t be getting fixated on revision for at least another two weeks. Maybe something happened and he fell asleep on the sofa. Henry forces himself upright thinking vague thoughts about going to check the sitting room, rubs his eyes hard, and freezes, lurching into a sudden, terrified awareness. This is not their bed, not bamboo wood and soft blue linens. This is light seeping through the cracks in dark four-poster hangings, mahogany wood, and a silk brocade quilt like the awful one he spent years sleeping under in Kensington Palace.

There’s a knock at one of the pillars on the outside of the bed. “Your Grace?”

“Uh,” Henry manages. The world is roaring furiously in his ears. Someone draws the bed hangings back to reveal a middle-aged white man, his face a study of carefully constructed professionalism. He is dressed in what Henry recognises as a livery, despite the fact it is incredibly old-fashioned, all gilt buttons and black velvet.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” the unknown man says. His voice is smooth and modulated in a way that denotes long practise. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, very,” Henry says, falling back on old habits. His head is whirling. Where is he? What the bloody hell is going on? Where’s Alex? A tiny part of him expects it to be a joke that his friends have pulled. It’s not beyond the realms of possibility re: money, time, and creativity, but their humour tends towards the glittery, sarcastic, and absurd. Cruel practical jokes really aren’t their style.

“Good. Anna is bringing your breakfast to the office, as you requested last night, and I’ve taken the liberty of laying out your new suit. Your audience with the King is at noon, and after luncheon you have been invited to meet with the Earl of Munster and Lord Gideon Mowbray to play bowls and discuss the events in France. Then tonight you have the state banquet, so please be back by six o’clock to dress. You have been promised to escort Lady J -”

“Right, yes. Thank you,” Henry says, swinging his legs out of the bed and standing up, forcing himself not to wobble. He’s wearing a linen shirt that falls to just above his knees, blinks at the sight of it because he _definitely_ remembers stealing Alex’s _a woman’s place is in the courtroom_ t-shirt to sleep in last night.

“Are you alright, Your Grace?” the servant asks, after a moment’s pause, and Henry finds himself floundering. There’s no way he can ask the man’s name. He’d obviously expected to find Henry – or someone who looked exactly _like_ Henry – in the bed, and is now going over to the gilt, bow-legged wardrobe to take down the suit hanging there with easy, well-worn motions. To him, nothing apparently seems out of the ordinary but Henry’s hands are sweating and he thinks he’s going to be sick.

Pull it together, he thinks viciously, schooling his face into the blank mask he’d perfected from years of being around his grandmother. He’s got to play along until he can figure out what the _hell_ is going on and how the hell he can get home to Brooklyn.

His servant helps him dress in silence and Henry lets himself be handed items of clothing – soft black embroidered breeches, a fine linen shirt with ties at the collar, a deep blue satin waistcoat, thin stockings, shoes with ornate golden buckles – and just focuses on his breathing, tries not to flinch at the servant’s cold fingers on his neck. This intimacy beyond weird; the only person he’s been quite this close to in this state of undress is Alex, and usually Alex is trying to get his clothes _off_ instead of on. Shaan would sometimes help Henry on with his jacket, or communicate sartorial disapproval via level stare and throat-clearing, but that’s about as close as he got; Henry was raised with the clear expectation that yes, he’s a prince, but he’s also fully possessed of two hands and ten fingers and perfectly capable of doing most things for himself.

The servant is now putting delicate gold cufflinks into Henry’s sleeves, and retrieving a watch-fob from the glass-topped cabinet by the window. Henry is tall enough that he can see the slope of a slate rooftop out of it, a tumble of silver-soft leaves in the lower right-hand corner and he stands as still as he can to let the man pin the watch to his waistcoat and tuck it into the little pocket designed for it, pick up the black jacket.

After some fussing with the settle of it over Henry’s shoulders – it all fits perfectly, which makes Henry wonder who the hell they were actually made for – he steps back.

“You’ll pass muster, Your Grace,” he says. Then, decisively, “Your parents would have been so proud.”

“Thank you,” Henry murmurs, not entirely sure what else he can say. The comment makes him think of his mother, his sister, of Alex. What will Alex do when he wakes to find Henry no longer there? The thought makes him want to _scream_ until his lungs char, until there’s nothing left but ash and cinders.

There’s a gentle tap on the door, and it creaks open; both Henry and the servant turn to see a relatively young woman – East Asian, Henry notes with surprise he hastily conceals – poking her head around the door. She’s wearing a black dress with a frilly white apron, and her shiny dark hair is pulled up beneath a cap of similar material.

“Your Grace, Mr Thompson,” she says, ducking into a curtsey. “Breakfast’s ready, and I intercepted the post-boy. There’s fresh news from France I thought you should see right-away, sir.”

“Thank you, Anna,” Mr Thompson intones, but there’s a touch of fondness to his voice that Henry wasn’t expecting. Anna gives them both a bright smile and pulls open the door – Henry takes the hint and goes through into an office that’s furnished in the same kind of fashion as the bedroom. It’s far too heavy and dark for his tastes, but the desk is pushed against a big picture-window and the leather armchair tucked underneath it looks comfortable. There’s a pile of envelopes next to a delicate china teapot and a cloth-covered plate. Thompson lingers by the door. “Will that be all, Your Grace?”

“That will be all,” Henry says like they do in Downton Abbey and feeling like a right prick when Thompson bows and retreats. The second the door thumps shut, Henry marches over to the desk and kicks the chair back, his breath coming quick and painful around the lump in his throat. His heart is thudding. He ignores the breakfast in favour of the papers, snatching the gilt letter-opener from the side of the desk and ripping the top envelope open. Understanding descends like a falcon or a death sentence and his legs give out; he stumbles backwards into the chair, hand to his mouth and panic a klaxon in his ears.

_2 nd August 1830._

Fuck. _Fuck._

*

By the evening, Henry has managed to establish exactly three things:

  1. He is apparently Lord Henry Fox, Duke of Mountchristen.
  2. His parents and brother perished at sea six months ago, and the end of the formal mourning period coincided with the ascension of the new King, William IV.
  3. King William IV loathes the French.



He still has exactly zero clue about the means of transport – comet? time machine? magic? – and after the morning’s extended panic attack, he hasn’t cared to think much more about it. Not, to be fair, that he’s had time. He read all of his correspondence several times over, trying to learn as much as he can; most of it was about a recent revolution in France, which Henry vaguely remembers learning about in connection to one of his modules at university. The rest was papers to do with an estate in Devon that in the 21st century probably belongs to the National Trust. After that, he’d had a brief private audience with King William, who was perhaps even more down-to-earth than history books had remembered him as, and the afternoon ‘bowls’ with his fellow nobles which had reminded him uncomfortably of forced socialisation with Phillip’s friends. He’d hung back and listened, attention divided between trying to learn as much as he could and trying to remember how to breathe. Tragedy, as it turns out, is a useful excuse for withdrawn silences, something that is also proving inordinately handy now.

The ballroom is full of melting candlelight and genteel violin music and the hustle of swaying satin dresses. He’s managed to extricate himself from the clutches of Lady J, a Marchioness who had monopolised him during dinner with talk of her three extremely eligible daughters; now, he’s hovering by a planter pretending to be fascinated by the arrangement of hothouse flowers.

“Beautiful, aren’t they?” a quiet, lightly-accented voice says somewhere to Henry’s right, and he startles, turns awkwardly on his heel. He’s been joined by an amused-looking woman dressed in ruby velvet, her dark hair pinned in elegant rolls on top of her head. There’s a gold crown glinting amongst them. Henry automatically dips into a bow, thanking God and his grandmother’s dogged insistence on proper form and court etiquette. Queen Adelaide offers her gloved hand to be kissed in the customary fashion. Henry kisses it, straightens.

“Come, sit with me,” she says, “I’m not used to all the pomp and circumstance either.”

Henry follows her back through the ballroom to a pair of heavy gilded chairs at the side of the dancefloor. They pass King William, who briefly looks up from his intent conversation with a pair of grey-haired, soberly-dressed lords to smile at his wife. Henry waits for the Queen to sit down, and then gingerly sits beside her, keeping his back as straight as possible. It’s been months since he’s had to be so _aware_ of himself, to watch and guard his every move.

“It’s good to see you back at court, Duke Mountchristen,” she starts.

“It’s a pleasure to be back, Majesty.”

“Kind of you to say.” The Queen looks like she’d be rolling her eyes if she were that kind of person. “We were so terribly sorry to hear about your parents and brother. I know His Majesty will miss your father’s sage advice.”

“And his willingness to deal with the French, no doubt.” Henry’s bowls companions had needed no prompting to talk extensively about the old Duke of Mountchristen and his daring diplomatic exploits during the French Revolution. He’d sounded a little like Henry’s actual father, all serious charm and principles and kindness.

“That too.” Queen Adelaide wrinkles her nose. “William does so hate the French.”

“His Majesty has been on the other side of a battlefield from them many times,” Henry says, parroting something the Earl of Munster had said earlier. A tiny part of his brain wonders whether it’s proper to be talking politics at a state occasion with the Queen, but since she’s begun an eloquent monologue about the ongoing election to Parliament, Henry reckons that it doesn’t really matter.

He zones out after a while, still nodding politely at names he doesn’t recognise and issues that were perhaps a sentence or two in his teenage history books. They’ve turned to look out at the dancers, the kaleidoscope-swirl of the ladies’ dresses, the cool glitter of embroidery and jewels, and that’s when Henry sees a face he’d know anywhere turning with confident elegance around his dance partner, his smile white and blinding against the deep tan of his face. Henry’s chest tightens, his ribs crowd close and claustrophobic, make it difficult to breathe again. It can’t be. He has to be hallucinating, he has to…

Queen Adelaide closes her fan, and Henry snaps back into himself like a rubber band.

“I apologise…” he starts, but she waves a silk-gloved hand.

“No need, Duke. I can tell you’re exhausted.” She gives him a look, and her smile turns mischievous. “I was reciting Shakespeare at you for the last few minutes anyway, you didn’t notice.”

“It was a wonderful recitation,” Henry says on autopilot, still staring out into the dancers. The Queen taps his shoulder with her fan in a gentle reprimand.

“Ah,” she says, “some faces have changed since you were last here, I’m sure. Who are you interested in?”

“Right in the middle,” Henry says, “now dancing with the lady in pink, the Countess of-”

“Warwick? Oh. That’s the American ambassador, a Mr Claremont-Diaz? I believe he arrived last summer from Washington, so just after your father took you all from court…”

Alex. Oh god, Alex. He’s here. The relief is like a tidal wave breaking over his head, and he bites back the hysterical laugh rising inexorably in his throat. Alex is _here_.

Queen Adelaide is now point out other nobles to him, but Henry’s watching Alex bow to his partner as the herald bangs his ceremonial stick and the band is silenced. Everyone turns in a rustle to face the dais, where the King is standing and watching. Queen Adelaide gives Henry a smile.

“I believe I must bid you goodnight, Duke.”

“Goodnight, Your Majesty,” Henry says, and bows to her. She dips her head in acknowledgement and goes to take her husband’s arm. The court rises and falls in a wave of obeisance, and the King and Queen process out of the ballroom, followed by a few ladies-in-waiting. By the time the doors close behind them and the music has started, the court has once again broken up into small groups of chattering, hummingbird-vibrant courtiers. Henry holds his breath, looks around over the heads of the courtiers, but Alex has completely disappeared.

*

Four days pass in the kind of frantic blur Henry only usually associates with international diplomatic incidents. He is unceremoniously swept up into the dizzying tornado of court life, promptly drafted into meetings and committees of the House of Lords discussing what the French people have apparently begun calling the ‘three glorious days’ and, closer to home, the spread of rioting across the south of England.

He has also, to his annoyance, been fending off a mountain of marriage proposals. Every time he thinks he’s escaped, someone new pops up to introduce him to their daughter – to think that he used to find his grandmother’s nagging obnoxious!

“Why?” Henry asks the ceiling as he’s towed unceremoniously away from the sixth marriage proposal of the day by his one new friend at court. Lord Richard Vane is two decades older than him, reminiscent of a Star Destroyer in both build and attire, and very likely to be gay. Not that Henry’s going to ask, of course. He knows his history and he really doesn’t want to get anyone imprisoned or hanged but it’s nice to pretend he’s not alone. They had been introduced by Vane’s older brother, the Marquess of Cirencester, at an evening hunt after his first Lords meeting and in the three days since, Vane has quietly but firmly taken Henry under his wing.

“Because you’re young, rich, titled, and look like you stepped out of an Raphael painting,” Vane says calmly, taking a sharp right turn down the portrait gallery. Light spills carelessly through the tall windows, illuminating the tired, painted faces of former monarchs. Henry’s been in this space in the 21st century many times, used to love skipping up and down it with Bea and listening to the rude stories she’d make up about every picture. Later, escaping his grandmother and his responsibilities, he’d come and talk to the portrait of King James I about George Villiers, traced his fingers over the frame and wondered if he’d ever find the same happiness.

“You know you could marry any woman you wanted,” Vane hums, considering.

“I don’t want to,” Henry bites out before he can stop himself. Vane gives him a sideways glance, more politely curious than anything else. There are voices coming down the end of the hall.

“Romantic, are we?”

Henry shrugs. “Busy.”

“Fair enough,” Vane says, as they round another corner. Henry nearly stops dead, only forces himself to keep appearing relaxed by the skin of his teeth. By the incremental rise of Vane’s eyebrows, he doesn’t think Vane is fooled. “And I’ll grant it you, the parents of a pretty girl can be the worst vultures. Good morning, Ambassador.”

“Good morning, Lord Richard,” Alex – up close it _is_ Alex, it _is,_ says. His eyes widen upon meeting Henry’s, but his face remains set in a pleasant mask. Henry aches to yell with delight, to pull him into an embrace and kiss him senseless, to collapse into his arms and sob but knows he can’t. “I didn’t realise that you were back at court.”

“Only to pay my respects to the new King,” Vane says calmly. “I’m off again at the end of the week. Marseille.”

“Mind the revolutionaries. Sending a man to rescue you from the guillotine would be such an inconvenience,” Alex responds, and then smiles a polite, close-mouthed smile that Henry has never seen before. Alex’s smiles are teeth and fireworks and whiskey, Alex’s smiles are coffee and late-nights and too small for their joy. Alex’s smiles are not polite and genteel and measured. That’s for other people, reporters, politicians. He’s never bothered to be polite around Henry, and the wrongness of it makes Henry’s skin crawl. “I don’t believe we’ve met…”

“I’ve been remiss, my apologies.” Vane claps Henry on the shoulder. “Henry, this is Alexander Claremont-Diaz, ambassador from America to King George and now to King William. Ambassador, this is Lord Henry Fox, the Duke of Mountchristen.”

“Your Grace,” Alex says and bows. Henry clenches his fists as hard as he can. There’s a lump in his throat. Not five days ago Alex was curled up in his arms in bed and now they’re in a _bloody_ Victorian portrait gallery having to act like complete strangers. God he’s not wanted to throw something this badly in years.

“Ambassador. A pleasure.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Alex says, and looks like he’s about to say something else when there are running footsteps, and a woman’s voice with a thick American accent is calling,

“Found him! Ambassador Claremont!”

“And that sounds like trouble,” Alex frowns, more to himself. “Excuse me, Your Grace, Lord Richard.”

As he walks quickly past Henry, he’s close enough that their arms brush, that Henry feels the briefest touch of Alex’s fingers to his and then Alex is gone and Henry is forcing himself not to turn and watch him go. After a moment’s silence, Vane begins walking again.

“Third floor, west wing, furthest doors on the right from the staircase,” Vane says conversationally as they near the end of the gallery. Henry slants him a look but all Vane does is open the door into the gallery courtyard, gesture Henry through first. “Lovely weather today.”

*

It turns out that midnight sleepover adventures with Bea and then Pez have prepared Henry very well to go sneaking around Buckingham Palace after dinner. He changes out of his court suit and brushes his hair behind his ears, checks his appearance in the oval mirror above his washstand; he looks pallid, exhausted, all hollowed-out eyes and gaunt cheekbones. Should he be frightened? He’s not looked this bad since those awful days after their emails leaked, when his grandmother ordered the communications lockdown and his brain just completely shut down. Alex, he reminds himself fiercely, gripping the side of the washstand. Think of Alex. He’s here.

There are three long corridors and two flights of stairs between his rooms and Alex’s, and he finds what he thinks is the correct door easily enough. It’s standing slightly ajar, and ghost-faint light shivers through the crack. Henry’s hands are sweating. He inches forward, leans a little against it – Alex is talking to himself in Spanish, and Henry can hear the scratch of a pen-nib against paper. He’s working late – some things never change. The scratching stops.

“Anna, I know you’re a spy. You don’t have to lurk to prove a point.”

Henry’s breath catches in his throat, refuses to release.

“Hello?” Alex says again, after a moment. The muffled screech of chair legs being pushed back, a thump, a click. “Who’s there?”

Henry takes a breath he can feel in his feet and pushes the door open, steps into a red-and-gold wallpapered office. Alex is in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, his shirt gaping open in a loose v; his hair is curlier than Henry remembers, longer, held back in a queue, and the lantern-light washes gold over his face like the beginning of a fairytale. Henry doesn’t think he’s seen anything more beautiful in his life.

Very slowly, Alex puts the revolver back down on the desk. His eyes are blown wide and he takes a shuddering breath. “You’re here,” he says, his voice stripped raw. “Henry. Oh God, _Henry._ ”

“I’m here,” Henry says. He steps forward. He can barely think from relief and joy and _want._ Alex is _here_ , Alex is _alive._ The terrified fog of the last five days is already lifting, fate is pressing a compass into his hands, turning him to the north star, to steadier ground. He steps forward, but Alex is turning away and he has a moment of sudden, gut-wrenching doubt before he realises that Alex is just scrabbling through the mountain of papers on his desk, swearing under his breath. After a moment, he comes up with a key and marches past Henry to shut the door, locking it with a loud thunk. In the next instant he’s surged forward into Henry’s arms and pressed his mouth desperately to Henry’s as if Henry is a vision, as if Henry is inches from disappearing. The kiss is hot and messy and nearly-brutal but Henry doesn’t care in the slightest. He gets a handful of Alex’s shirt, walks him backwards until they’re pressed against the wall by the door. Alex breaks the kiss, winds his fingers tightly into Henry’s hair.

“I thought I hallucinated you.” His voice is very hoarse. “I thought I was going mad.”

“I’m right here,” Henry says against Alex’s mouth, trying to eradicate every micron of space between their bodies. His hand comes up to cup Alex’s face, and it’s only then that he realises Alex is crying. He tries to pull away, to make sure Alex is alright, but Alex won’t let him.

“Don’t stop,” he manages in between graceless, sloppy kisses, pushing Henry’s jacket off his shoulders, sliding his hand into the neck of Henry’s shirt. His fingers are sparklers against Henry’s skin. “Don’t you fucking _dare_ stop.”

They might have been flung through time but some things are constants holding the universe steady; the rasp of Alex’s breathing, his complete inability to be quiet, his filthy, _filthy_ mouth. All the lingering hopelessness and panic of the last five days goes up in a blaze of heat and sweat and glory, and when they’re done, breathless and gasping in a half-naked tangle on the rug, something in Alex seems to snap and he starts to sob.

“Hey,” Henry says, pulling Alex even closer, running his fingers up and down the indent of Alex’s spine as Alex cries into his neck. “Hey. Alex. Baby. It’s alright. I’m here.”

After a long while, Alex finally calms, lifting his head and wiping his eyes. “Well that was cathartic.”

Henry presses his thumb gently to the patch of skin just under Alex’s eye. “It’s been a stressful few days.” Then, at Alex’s look, “what? Why are you…”

“Love,” Alex says. His voice is too steady, but his eyes are screaming. “Henry.” He inhales, slow, and then says all at once, “I’ve been here for two years.”

Henry’s mouth falls open, he stares. The revelation feels like someone has punched through his ribs and wrapped bloody fingers around his heart. He can’t _breathe._ Alex takes Henry’s face in his hands, rests his forehead against Henry’s.

“I woke up in New York,” he says, quiet and bitter, “the only son of a political salon hostess. No June, no Nora, no you. It was, I think, my worst nightmare come true.”

“ _Alex._ ”

“No, no, _no_.” Alex’s fingers tighten against Henry’s face. “Do not beat yourself up about this-”

“I just wish I’d-”

“I do too, but you’re here now.” His red-rimmed eyes are impossibly soft all of a sudden. “How are _you_ doing? I’ve had time to deal with the whole wahoo time-travel thing but you’ve barely had any _time_. It’s been what, five days?”

“I’m better now, after this,” Henry tells him honestly, brushing a brief kiss to Alex’s mouth. “I’m just so worried about our friends, our families. They’ll be worried sick.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Alex murmurs. “Nora’s here.”

Henry nearly chokes on thin air at the surprise of it, lurches forward against Alex’s shoulder and coughs until he can breathe again. “Nora’s here?”

“Not here in England here,” Alex clarifies, carding his fingers through Henry’s hair. Henry pulls back again to be able to look Alex full in the face. “Here in 1830, yes. We think that everyone might be.”

“How did you…”

“Total accident. Ran into her when I was travelling down to Washington. She was running slaves out of the South.” Alex’s face twists, and Henry’s heart does too. He tries not to think of Pez because if he does he might pass out.

“She didn’t wake up enslaved, thank God. I don’t think I could have…” Alex trails off. He’s quieter than he used to be, more watchful, more measured and Henry aches for what he must have gone through. “Anyway. We found each other, tried to work out a plan. I’ll write to her tomorrow. It was pretty much common sense that you’d end up here, but she’ll be so glad to have been right.”

“Does she know why or how or-”

“She did rule out the possibility that this is a collective bad trip,” Alex huffs. “But no. It’s too big a problem for even her giant brain.”

“So we’re stuck here?”

“As far as I know.”

Henry waits a few seconds for the inevitable panic attack, but surprisingly it doesn’t come. His breathing stays regular; Alex is a warm, fidgeting weight in his arms. The whole situation is far from ideal – the illegality of being gay, the burgeoning empire and all the violence it will bring, the diseases and accidents that could strike either of them down without a second thought – but they’re together. They’re together, stubborn and steady, and they’ve been through worse than this.

“Hey,” Henry says after a moment. Alex stops drawing random letters on Henry’s back. “Remember that thing you said to me, in the car?”

“I’ve said many things to you in cars, most of them dirty,” Alex informs him. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“In the car right before I went on that fake date with June. I was freaking out, and you looked me in the eyes and said “you and me and history, remember-”

“We’re just going to fucking fight,” Alex finishes for him. “Yeah. I remember. That was an epically fraught time in our lives, though I think this might be giving it a run for its money.”

“Well it’s the same thing,” Henry says, “You and me and history. Who cares if we’re making it in the 21st century or the 19th? Maybe we were sent back here to make the world a better place.”

“History, huh?” Alex says, and he’s smiling now, a proper firework smile, and Henry feels his blood sing in response.

“History, huh?” he echoes, fingers finding Alex’s. “Let’s find the others. They’ll be really mad if we make it without them.”

**Author's Note:**

> The story is marked as complete rn because I have deadlines. I am planning on extending it when I have time. On a lighter note, it's historical context nerdery time yay!
> 
> The obsession with France and the French is because King William IV's distrust of them is historical fact, and the story begins less than a week after the July Revolution deposes Charles X in favour of 'citizen-king' Louis-Phillippe. Queen Adelaide was also political and people distrusted her for trying to sway the King's political allegiance.
> 
> Lord Richard Vane is not my creation - he belongs to KJ Charles and the INCREDIBLE series 'Society of Gentlemen'. She writes queer historical murder mysteries with very good smut and very good snark that always end happily. I can't emphasise how much I adore her. Please read her stuff. You won't be sorry.
> 
> Finally - the painting of Raphael's I'm alluding to is [this one](https://raphaelpaintings.org/st-michael-vanquishing-satan.jsp) don't ask why it reminds me of Henry, it just does.
> 
> I think that's it, thanks for indulging me. Come scream at me on Discord (I go by 'eliza') or Tumblr: @if-fortunate


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